Days Gone Down in the West
by UnsureHistorian
Summary: When the Hero of Fereldan vanished several years after his confrontation with the Architect, he left a land still riven by the Blight and internal conflict. Now Alistair, the King of Fereldan, seeks to find his long-lost friend - and the Grey Wardens have furnished him just the way to do it. But are their motives as pure as the King's? M!Cousland/Morrigan.


**Days Gone Down in the West**

There was a chill in the air that heralded the coming frost; Graham pulled his threadbare cloak more tightly around shoulders not quite as broad as he remembered them. Winter in Highever was not as harsh as those he had experienced in the South, in the Korcari Wilds, hunting fruitlessly for elusive barbarians and patrolling untraveled roads.

The darkness of the forest beckoned to him, stretching away into the distance along the road - he wondered at that road: did it lead to the old Imperial Highway, and if so, where else did it go? A man might lose himself on such a road.

Here, on the outskirts of the small town, away from the more violent bustle of the market, a man could think, could collect himself in the face of the awful loneliness which only came when surrounded by teeming humanity: the knowledge, the full and total awareness of isolation and abandonment.

He shook his head. Foolishness. Graham turned away from the forest, dark even an hour after midday, and returned to his small fire, built from deadwood he scavenged from the forests' eaves; he dared not venture further.

Even with the sun at its height, the fire was needed, and he dreaded the return of night and its biting cold. Perhaps - perhaps - he had enough fuel to last the night. Might be he should gather more, but he misliked the forest's mien; it reminded him this day too much of the Wilds - and of the things which lurked therein.

The resinous wood crackled and broke as the flames licked its flanks, and Graham watched the burst of sparks jump into the air and blow away in a sudden gust of wind which tore at his cloak and made him clutch at it more tightly.

He pulled a crust of bread from his tunic - the last he had saved - and considered it, such as it was. There was no more in his ragged lean-to, but perhaps that was as it was to be; he had lived a long time, and seen much death - his own would come as no surprise.

"Graham!" he heard his name shouted, and turned towards the town. There they came, a motley crew of children, rough and tumble, running down the road towards his little camp.

"Tell us a story," they clamored, ringed around him and tugging on his cloak, all rosy cheeks and expectant faces. His face was stern for a long while, though they kept at him, calling for a tale, until finally he cracked a smile, and laughed, and then they laughed, and all was well.

"Very well," he said, "of what do you wish to hear?"

One rolled his eyes and sighed in exaggerated frustration. "You know."

"I don't, honest," was Graham's deliberate response.

The boy pouted now, and looked away. "We want to hear about Him," said a girl, her long brown hair tightly braided in an attempt at copying the Orlesian fashion.

"Who?"

"You know: _Him._ The Warden - the _Hero of Ferelden_."

"Oh," replied Graham, and he smiled indulgently: "_Him._" He sat down by the fire, and the children followed, circling around the blaze, as he threw a few more scanty logs to feed it.

"What do you want to hear about?"

There was a chorus of requests, then: The Forest, and the Werewolves; the Witch, and their meeting; Orzammar and the Deep Roads; slaying the Archdemon; and more.

"What happened to him after he disappeared?" said a high and clear voice, penetrating through the raucous cries.

Graham's eyes found the source of that specific request, and the others quieted; a Rule had been broken, an unspoken code: one did not look too closely at the Warden's life after he left Amaranthine. But today - and it had been so long . . .

"Very well," he said, "I know one story, but it may not be what you expect; are you sure you wish to hear it?" The girl nodded, her face full of trepidation and curiosity. Graham sighed, and began.

"Three years after he slew the Archdemon and miraculously survived, the Hero of Ferelden was sitting in his office at the Vigil. He had never been quite the same, or so they say, after that day on top of Fort Drakon, where he faced an Old God and defeated him. They say that a piece of him never came back, that the Witch took that piece with her when she abandoned the Warden."

"What do you think, Graham?"

"I think that he loved her very much; when he lost her... he didn't quite know how to carry on, but did. Is that not what heroes do? Now hush, and let me tell the tale."

The girl, suitably chastened, lapsed into silence.

"The Warden bore a ring, given him by the Witch, Morrigan, as a bond between them, and it was said among the guard at the Vigil that the Warden Commander would walk the walls, fingering the ring, as if it were an old, poorly-healed wound which pained him on cold nights."

"One night, though, was different, and even the people of the village saw the Commander of the Grey as he walked the parapets, seeking answers from the stars; he did not sleep. In the morning, a bann came to speak with him over some trifle: the placement of a watchtower, or some such. Lord Aedan dealt fairly and patiently with the bann, as was his wont, but remained firm on the matter; the bann left unfulfilled."

"That afternoon, without warning, he left. He put on his chainmail armor, threw his shield and sword across his back, and walked out the front gate. The guard on duty watched him as the Warden paused on the very threshold of the gate; they spoke, briefly, the Warden commented on the seasonable weather, and gave the guard encouragement. The man was bewildered and a little disturbed; he had never seen Aedan Cousland up close, and the tales seemed to have exaggerated his features. Aedan Cousland seemed no more nor less than any other man he had met - and yet, there was some hidden quality about him, something insubstantial..." Graham paused, formulating his next words.

"That man, that guard at the Vigil gate, was the last man to see the Hero of Ferelden. The Warden Commander simply walked out the gate and disappeared."

"King Alistair was distraught when the news reached him, but all efforts to find his old friend and companion availed him nothing; the Warden was gone and no one could find him.

"Until one day..."

* * *

The chill wind blew in from the opened window and rustled the papers strewn so haphazardly across the King's desk.

"Close the damned window, would you?"

"Of course, your majesty."

Alistair sighed, and signed the last document requiring his attention - for that day, at least. "Is that all?"

"Yes, your majesty, I believe so." The steward began collecting the papers and organizing them into an orderly stack for transport when a knock came at the door.

"Maker, what is it now?" Alistair demanded, and sank further into the chair which, although created for his comfort, now seemed only fit to drown him in the plush cushions.

All attention, the steward inquired, "Should I admit him, your majesty?" Alistair, exasperated and wishing only to retire to his chambers, nodded his assent. Abandoning the papers on the desk and striding purposefully towards the entryway, the steward opened the heavy oaken door and stood aside, allowing the road-stained messenger to enter.

He bowed, hesitantly, and fidgeted, perhaps anxious about the appearance of his mud-spattered surcoat: the white gryphon was no longer quite so white, and the blue of the field was dirty and hazed by dust and grime.

But Alistair stood, and beckoned the man over towards a chair by the fire. The messenger took it, and bowed again, extending his hand, bearing a message, sealed with the double-gryphon sign of the Warden Commander.

Alistair hesitated, half-seated, and reached out his hand to take the note. He stood, absorbed, and so the messenger remained standing, the steward forgotten by the door.

The seal stared up at him from out of the red wax - accusingly, Alistair felt. Yet he gryphon yielded its hold on secrecy quite easily to his finger, and parted in twain; the short note unfolded and Alistair read its few lines quickly. Then he read them again.

The messenger watched carefully as the King's eyes widened briefly, and raised to meet his own.

"Is this true?" Alistair indicated the note. "He is back?"

The messenger nodded, confident at last. "Yes, your majesty."

"How do you know, for sure?"

"We know, your majesty."

"You have sensed him, then? You are certain?"

"Without doubt, majesty; his presence is very distinctive."

"Why have I not felt him, then? I am as much a Grey Warden as you - and more, for I traveled with him as his close companion for a year and many months ."

"I do not know, majesty. But, as always, matters concerning the Warden are . . . fluid. I cannot feel him, myself - perhaps only the Warden Commander can? I know not; I must do as I am bid."

Alistair nodded wordlessly, considering the missive he still held in his hands. Aedan - back again after all these years? What might that herald? And if Aedan had returned, that also meant that She was with him: the Witch. Morrigan; even now he could see those piercing, disdainful, beautiful eyes.

What had _she_ brought back with her? Alistair did not like to think on that too closely.

"Why has the Warden Commander brought this to me? It is in his purview to act as he sees fit."

The messenger hesitated, studying the king, not wishing, perhaps, to give offense. The silence stretched until finally the man spoke. "The Warden Commander considered it a courtesy to you, your majesty, being as you were the Warden's fast friend during that fateful time."

Alistair inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. "Please convey my thanks to the Warden Commander for his consideration. May I inquire as to his stance on this situation?"

"That was my second purpose, your majesty. The Warden Commander takes a dim view of desertion . . ."

"Desertion?" echoed Alistair, incredulous.

". . . and there are other matters besides: Aedan Cousland has done what no other Grey Warden has ever done - slain an Archdemon and lived to tell the tale. The Warden Commander greatly wishes to know how this was accomplished - and at what cost." The messenger's gaze was penetrating, but Alistair kept his face blank and unknowing, despite his very detailed knowledge of the price Aedan had paid for his survival. Though, perhaps, in the final calculation, Aedan had not himself considered it such a very great sacrifice.

"We intend," continued the messenger, "to find the Warden and bring him to the Vigil for questioning - perhaps even to Weisshaupt Fortress if necessary."

Alistair could hardly believe what he was hearing, and could not, for several moments, formulate an appropriate response.

"You're joking - you must be, because you cannot be serious."

"I am deadly serious, your majesty, as is the Warden Commander - and the First Warden if we must come directly to the point."

"Yes, I believe we must," answered Alistair, and sank into his chair; the messenger remained standing. The King passed his hand across his eyes. "Arrest Aedan Cousland, the Hero of Ferelden - the greatest hero of the Age? Madness."

"Only if he does not come willingly. We have need of him; the Darkspawn press upon us even now - as I am sure your majesty is well aware."

The King sighed, and rubbed his forehead wearily. "Yes," he said at length, "I am more than aware."

"And what," Alistair questioned, "would the Commander of the Grey wish of the King of Ferelden?"

"Your presence when we search him out - but only yours. This is a Grey Warden matter: private, as such a thing should be."

Alistair paused, and stared into the flickering flames of the fire. It was some minutes before the messenger prompted him.

"And what answer may I relay to the Warden Commander?"

There was a deep breath, an exhalation, and then: "Yes, I will come. Maker preserve us."

It took the rest of the afternoon and the following day for Alistair to conclude his business in Denerim and order the conduct of affairs in his absence.

They rode out at the break of dawn; Alistair had drawn his old Grey Warden gear from the armory, and wore it now.

Five wardens had accompanied the messenger, and the small column rode hastily out through the main gates of Denerim, bound North for Highever, the ancestral lands of the Couslands.

They rode for many days, camping under the stars and along the banks of Hafter River until they came to the wide flatlands of the Bannorn, where the ocean winds brought warmth and moisture into the middle lands of Ferelden.

Here dwelt banns independent of any arling or teyrnir; wild and free were the holdings, and yet they held Ferelden's agricultural and demographic strength.

They passed a column of mounted infantry, pennants fluttering in the far-off sea-breeze and spears carried at ease over their shoulders. The soldiers stared as they cantered past, nervous of the grave Wardens passing on their left, and they ceased their songs and joking. Their officer watched them warily. But the Wardens paid them no mind, and continued on their way.

"You are sure he is in Highever?" questioned Alistair one night, around the campfire.

The messenger nodded slowly, never taking his eyes off the fire. "The Warden Commander is very sure, yes. But where exactly _in_ Highever . . . we do not know."

"Wonderful."

The messenger cocked an eyebrow. "Indeed."

They woke the next morning to a fine, Ferelden morning: a grey sky, and clouds swollen with latent precipitation.

The makeshift camp was packed swiftly, and they were on the road before the sun had risen far above the horizon. They rode into the outskirts of Highever before noon, Castle Cousland casting long shadows across the town below it.

Two days they spent, drifting in and out of taverns and marketplaces, listening, observing. On the third day, one of the wardens overheard a conversation between two market vendors as they discussed a customer: a lord by his bearing, but of understated dress and manner, who had purchased basic supplies and food. He had been accompanied by a black-haired women of remarkable beauty.

"So. What is your plan?" asked Alistair as they sat in the common room of a shabby inn on the outskirts of town. The fire crackled in the long silence which followed.

"We wait," said the messenger at last, "when he returns, we will trail him to where he lives."

"And then?"

"And then it is up to him," the messenger's voice was cold, and Alistair glanced at the faces of the other Wardens, and their eyes were focused on the firelight, but harshness glinted in their aspect.

Alistair frowned, and fell silent.

A fortnight passed, and the afternoon sun found Alistair and the messenger walking the streets, cloaked and hooded against the chill.

"He is here," whispered the messenger, and motioned slightly towards one side of the street. And there, indeed, was Aedan Cousland. Alistair recognized him instantly: he had not aged a day; the long, lean profile, and sharp, angular features were exactly as they had been when Alistair had last seen Aedan years ago.

To Alistair, it was surreal, as if the man had stepped out of a memory, and had not been missing for years. And here he was, buying a handful of apples and a few loaves of bread as if nothing had gone amiss.

Carefully, Alistair looked around him, trying to catch a glimpse of the Witch, who could not be very far if she was here at all. The pair stood, pretending to look over a vendor's wares, while actually closely scrutinizing the Grey Warden not fifty feet from where they stood. Yet Alistair could see no sign of Morrigan, and at last decided that she had not accompanied his old friend on this trip.

The sun had sunken low towards the horizon by the time Aedan made his final purchase and turned towards the main road out of town.

They trailed him along the road until the sun disappeared and the forest around them fell into gloom. Night noises surrounded them, but Aedan continued along the road until finally making a turn to the north, apparently at random, and entering the forest ahead of them.

Pale moonlight glinted off sword-points as the Grey Wardens drew their swords and moved to follow the old Warden Commander. Alistair looked askance, but followed suit, trailing the messenger as he slid silently between the trees.

Hours of careful tracking passed them by, and the forest darkness deepened around them. Finally, they reached a clearing, and suddenly they could smell burning wood: a cookfire. In the center of the clearing stood a massive oak, and beneath its boughs stood a wooden cabin, well fashioned.

The messenger motioned silently, and the Grey Wardens spread out to surround the clearing, and their target, until only one remained with Alistair and the messenger.

A bowstring drew taught as the messenger stepped out into the clearing, the Grey Warden beside Alistair aiming steadily down the shaft at Aedan.

"What are you doing?" Hissed Alistair. The other Warden ignored him.

"You can't just shoot him!"

"He abandoned us all when he left," replied the other man, "we owe him nothing, now."

"Nothing? As if any man ever deserved more than the Hero of Fereldan!"

"The Hero who deserted his duty? The Hero who betrayed his calling? Tell me, if the Archdemon is no more, whose soul did it destroy, if not Aedan's?"

"The silence is your answer; soon, I think, you will have to decide on whose side you will stand."

Their attention was drawn back to the clearing by the messenger's shout.

"Aedan Cousland!"

The other man turned slowly to face him. "Hello."

"I am Jean d'Abergnie of the Grey Wardens."

Aedan smiled slowly. "And what do you want of me, Jean d'Abergnie?"

"It is time to return to your brothers, Aedan. The Vigil is your home; the Grey Wardens are your family. The Darkspawn still ravage this land and those who live upon it; we have need of you, Aedan, as do they."

Aedan's smile disappeared, and he half-turned away from the messenger, watching him out of the corner of one eye. "Have I not given enough already? I ended the Blight - what more do you want from me?"

"Perhaps," replied the messenger, and suddenly switched his approach. "Where is she, Aedan - the Witch? We know she had something to do with your survival." He paused, and the two men stared silently at one another. A cloud passed across the moon, casting them into shadow. "And her child."

Aedan's hand strayed towards his sword hilt as he turned to face the messenger once more.

"You will not have them, either."

"You are wrong, Aedan, we will have all of you."

"Come and take us, then."

"Stop!" yelled Alistair as he burst from the treeline, "Stop this madness!"

"Alistair?" questioned his old friend, startled to see him after such a long time. The messenger tensed, ready for violence, as Alistair approached.

The two friends watched each other, Aedan's eyes wary, and full of conflicting emotions. But he waited for Alistair to speak.

"Aedan, it's true. Fereldan is in bad shape; the Darkspawn still roam the South, and even now the Grey Wardens don't have the strength to clear them from the hinterlands. They raid and pillage, and we can do little to stop them."

"And what would you have me do, your majesty?" Aedan's voice was distant and detached; he looked resigned to an unwelcome fate.

"What you always do," Alistair pleaded, desperate to avoid bloodshed, "succeed, persevere: endure."

But Aedan's eyes hardened. "I have endured all that I intend to, my friend. I will not return with you."

"So be it," said the messenger, and drew his sword. At that moment, an arrow whistled out of the brush, striking Aedan in the left arm and flinging him backward. The other Grey Wardens leaped from their hiding places around the clearing and charged towards the three men at its center.

Aedan drew his own sword and parried the messenger's attacks with difficulty. The arrow in his arm sent bolts of agony up and down his side, and his vision began to darken.

Alistair felt a rush of power, and readied his mental defenses; but the sheer force overwhelmed him, and both he and the messenger were flung fifteen yards by some unseen force. They lay sprawled in the dark grass, stunned. _She's here_, thought Alistair, and in affirmation he could see a dark-haired woman rush from the doorway of the house, a staff in one hand.

The other hand she flung out, and from it gouted a wave of frost that engulfed one of the charging Wardens. The others rushed on, and the Witch placed an arm around Aedan, keeping him upright.

The messenger was on his feet before Alistair could recover, and joined his fellows in their attack. Aedan had thrown off the shock of his wound, and was pressing his opponent's skill; Alistair saw that one Grey Warden already lay dead at his feet.

The messenger charged in, using his armored bulk to slam Aedan off his feet and onto the ground. Crushed beneath Aedan's falling body, the arrow in his arm snapped and Aedan cried out in renewed agony. Pressing his attack, the messenger struck down at his adversary, but Aedan parried it, launching himself to his feet and counterattacking violently. The reckless attacks threw back the Grey Warden, and the messenger found himself losing ground, sorely pressed.

He looked about for aid: Alistair stood, sword in hand, but disengaged; the Witch avoided a swordstrike and grabbed the face of her opponent, the skin broiled and smoked at her touch, and she flung him away from herself, to explode in a shower of gore and shattered bone.

Aedan deftly cut under the messenger's guard, more quickly than might have been expected, given the extent of his wounds. The smooth movement passed up and slid deeply into the messenger's side before withdrawing with whip-like speed. The sudden pain caused him to misstep and fall, landing heavily on his back. His sword flew from nerveless fingers - out of reach.

Blood began to leak profusely from his side, staining his armor black in the night's darkness.

Another Grey Warden engaged Aedan before he could finish off the messenger, but Aedan cut him down without difficulty, and stood over his fallen opponent. The sword hovered inches above the messenger's throat.

"Yield."

The messenger's eyes sought an ally, any ally, but there were none. The Witch stood behind Aedan, her golden eyes cold, harsh, and menacing; Aedan stood above him, detached and powerful; Alistair met his gaze and shrugged.

"He's my friend."

Aedan smiled slightly, and the messenger paled.

"Tell the First Warden that he should send back no more men to find me; they will meet the same fate. Go now. I grant you your life this once, because of the brotherhood we might once have shared - return, and I will kill you."

The messenger fled, disappearing into the darkened brush of the forest. With the last threat gone, Aedan slumped in pain and exhaustion, caught at the last moment by the dark-haired woman at his side.

Alistair watched, motionless, as the pair slowly turned and moved towards their home, Aedan leaning heavily on the woman.

"Come on, Alistair." He started, and saw his old friend looking kindly over his shoulder, and motioning him forward to accompany them. Looking about once more at the carnage that had once been six Grey Wardens, Alistair forced his eyes away from the gaze of dead men, and joined his old companions.

The door closed behind him with a gentle tap, and Alistair found himself in a beautifully furnished home, a fire blazed in a stone fireplace, and a pleasant woody aroma permeated the room.

Aedan sank into a simple wooden chair and sighed in relief. Alistair saw the woman look up at him, and recognized that same cool disdain which had stung him in that selfsame manner across countless campfires so many years ago.

"Alistair." She said, and nodded, slightly, her voice crisp and cool.

"Morrigan." Alistair returned, nodding in acknowledgement.

Their exchange completed, Morrigan returned her attention to Aedan, slapping away hands that were attempting to bandage his wounded arm.

Alistair watched the pair in mounting amusement, so quickly had they transitioned to what seemed to be a domestic setting. Morrigan applied a poultice to Aedan's arm, and glanced over at Alistair as she wrapped clean linen about the wound.

When she noticed his smirk, her face soured. "And what is so amusing, pray?"

Alistair burst out laughing, and managed, between peals of relieved laughter, "I just never would have pictured you acting so motherly!"

Morrigan hissed and coiled to spit back a biting retort. Aedan raised his hands, laughing himself. "Enough," he cried, "enough! Mercy! Maker but you two haven't changed."

Morrigan bit her lip and returned her attention to Aedan's wounds.

"He was right, you know," said Alistair after along pause, "We need you." Morrigan gave him a baleful look but remained silent.

Aedan shook his head. "I am sorry, Alistair, but my answer is still no."

"But..."

Aedan held up a hand in refusal. "No, Alistair, I have given enough already."

Alistair bowed his head and relented as Morrigan bustled worriedly around his friend. When Aedan was satisfactorily bandaged, he and Morrigan cooked a meal and went to bed, allowing Alistair a blanket and cushions so that he could stay the night.

As morning came, they were both up and awake before Alistair had even blinked the sleep from his eyes, and after breakfast, he realized that it was passed time to depart.

Clasping hands on the doorstep, the King and the Hero of Fereldan parted for the last time.

When he was halfway across the clearing, Alistair looked back, and there they both stood, Aedan with one arm around Morrigan's shoulders as her black hair flowed in the wind. After a while she turned and went inside, but Aedan stayed, watching his friend until Alistair entered the forest and was hidden forever from sight.

* * *

The firelight flickered orange and yellow across the storyteller's drawn and aged face. Clouds limned with the last rays of the setting sun flitted across the deepening sky, and the children's faces, upturned in rapt attention, seemed amazingly young to Graham's old eyes.

Silence accompanied the end of his tale.

"I don't understand," said one, his tone at once angry and confused. Graham regarded him seriously, waiting for further elaboration. "I don't think the Warden did anything bad! All he wanted was to find Morrigan and his baby! That's not bad! The other Grey Wardens were going to take them away!" The other children murmured in agreement.

"And yet he deserted his command, and killed other Grey Wardens to find them. These are grievous crimes."

"So? He was trying to be with his love. That's pretty important."

"Perhaps. But are there not other things more important even than that? What about duty, and honor?"

The girl snorted. "The Hero of Fereldan stopped the Blight! He saved the world!"

Graham smiled sadly. "The world is not enough."

Another boy from around the fire questioned, "But what happened to them - to The Hero of Fereldan and the Witch, I mean."

"That tale is told by no man, for he was never seen again. There were whispers of him in Orlais, even in the Free Marches, but no one really knows. Perhaps he is dead."

The children departed, some confused, some angry, but soon Graham was left alone, huddled by the fire; the sun dipped down below the horizon and vanished from sight. A small purse of money flew from somewhere outside the fire's reach and landed with a jangle of coins at Graham's feet.

"Well told. And true, what's more; few storytellers may say as much."

Graham jumped to his feet with an agility that belied his age, and told of other experience. "Who's there?" he demanded, but in truth he already knew who it was; the voice called to him from across the span of years.

"I remember you, soldier, even if you do not remember me," said Aedan Cousland as he stepped noiselessly into the firelight.

"My lord, forgive me, I did not mean to speak out of turn-"

Aedan laughed, "Be at ease, your judgment of my actions was no harsher than my own." Graham remained silent as Aedan watched him closely. "I am leaving," he said at last, "and this time I shall not return. We have a strange connection, you and I; as you were the last to see me so many years ago, in that dusty gatehouse of the Vigil, so you are again the last to see me now."

A gentle smile creased his features, and he pointed to the money-purse lying in the dust by Graham's feet. "You've been in the cold too long, my friend. Go to the inn tonight, and rest; your watch is done."

With that, the Hero of Fereldan turned on his heel and vanished into the night, leaving Graham shocked and trembling in his little camp. After a long moment, he bent down, once again conscious of his age, and retrieved the bulging money-purse. Opening the drawstring, he looked inside, and laughed. Within were golden sovereigns: a fortune.

**UH**


End file.
